


Cold-Blooded

by Tan_lines



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Angst, Background Case, Case Fic, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Sam Winchester, I'm Sorry Sam Winchester, John Winchester Being an Asshole, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Teen Dean Winchester, Teen Sam Winchester, Torture, Tortured Sam Winchester, Unhappy Ending, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29549829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tan_lines/pseuds/Tan_lines
Summary: The Winchesters are on a hunt in Alabama, and while John is determined to take care of everything by himself, Sam and Dean just want to help. They’re supposed to be a family, they’re supposed to work together, but when father and son can’t get along, one wrong move may change them forever.-Sam is 16 and Dean is 20.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	1. How to Make Enemies and Influence Monsters

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Supernatural prompts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28062084) by [Bell1408](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bell1408/pseuds/Bell1408). 



> Thanks to Bell1408 for this prompt!! (Please read the tags, heed the warnings, don't make me say I told you so)

  
  


**July 15th, 1999**

**4:22 AM - Monroeville, Alabama / Unidentified Location**

Sam’s muscles tensed and twitched as spasming shivers ran from the surface of his ribs to the tips of his fingers and toes. Thighs pressed close against his shaking chest, he tried to rub his calves together to generate heat, worried that soon, he wouldn’t be able to feel anything.

The light from the only door’s window dimmed, a shadow leering behind the warped yellow glass. There were murmured words, and then a gargling cough of machinery. They had turned the AC down again. Sam pressed his fingernails into his arms, huffing into his elbow as frigid air began to circulate the room once more. 

He didn’t have the strength or will to raise his head as the door opened, metal hinges screeching at one another, a hellish melody to the drumbeat of heavy footsteps echoing across the room. His eyes flickered upward as far as they could, staring through the dripping strands of hair at the shadow that watched him.

The shadow kneeled, the heavy coat he had put on to enter the room draping across the floor and the tops of Sam’s feet. Even as Sam analyzed his captor, he was relieved to know he hadn’t gotten frostbite yet.

“What,” The shadow said, voice calm and almost sultry. “Don’t you enjoy a break from all that heat?” 

There was muffled laughter from behind the door, loud enough to break through the steady drone of the AC unit and what Sam assumed had to be at least a couple inches of steel, and yet the shadow ignored it. Instead, he put a finger under Sam’s chin, dragging his head up by the jaw until they were staring into one another’s eyes.

“Who are you, why am I here?” Sam managed to hiss out through clenched teeth, his body almost completely locked up with cold.

The shadow just smiled, searching Sam’s face and body with his eyes, as if he were a piece of choice meat at a deli, and he was deciding how exactly he wanted him cut. 

“Oh Sam,” He whispered, leaning down so close to his ear that Sam could feel the rough stubble of his upper lip brush against it. “Didn’t I already tell you? I’m a big fan of yours. And of your fathers’.”

Sam fought hard to repress the tremble that threatened to move him, terrified of both what the shadow would think, and moving closer to him.

“As to your second question,” He said, his voice at the same volume even as he pulled away, standing to his full, impressive height. 

“You’re here to die.”

**July 13th, 1999**

**8:09 PM - Alabama State Road 41 / Just outside Monroeville**

“So, how many dead as of yesterday?” John asked, eyes never leaving the road even as he addressed the young man sitting shotgun.

Dean had pulled out their laptop, a heavy thing which had mostly been Sam’s responsibility ever since they maxxed out a credit card to buy it. It was his responsibility because out of all the Winchesters, the 16-year-old was the only one who was able to figure out how to use it. He had saved files onto it the previous night when they were preparing for this hunt. Newspaper articles, obituaries, and police reports from Monroeville, where they were headed.

Sam pressed his cheek against the cool glass of the backseat window and shut his eyes, allowing the grumbling vibration of the car’s engine to drown out the front seat conversation as much as possible. Still, he wasn’t asleep and his father and brother weren’t known for speaking quietly.

“According to the obits, four. Those are only the strange ones though. There are seven if you want to count a car accident.”

“The strange ones, what do you have on CoD?”

“Uh, cause of death… the police said muggings for all four. Not much information though, I don’t have the coroner’s report.”

“I thought he said he could get everything we needed onto that thing. The whole reason I wasted a perfectly good card on it was so we didn’t have to break into the precinct.”

“Sammy did his best Dad. I mean, I doubt they would have that sort of stuff on the web anyway.”

John mumbled something under his breath that Sam couldn’t make out from his position behind them, but from Dean’s reaction it probably wasn’t anything nice. There were a few beats of silence. The tape that John had put in earlier on in the drive had ended almost an hour ago, and he would never stoop to turning on the radio.

“What do you think it is then?” Dean asked, voice quieter than before, eyes glued to the screen, no longer looking up at John.

“Well I can’t know for sure, can I?”

“But you have an idea?”

“Yeah, Dean. I have a few.”

More silence. Sam realized that if he leaned far enough back into his seat he could feel the press and pull of the Impala’s tires as they rolled over imperfections in the asphalt, her frame humming in content. 

There was a huffed breath. Dean must’ve been silently pleading to be kept in the loop, a carefully constructed combination of sighing, fidgeting and a persistent tapping of fingers against glass. The very ‘Dean’ way of saying, ‘I don’t even care. I don’t need to know anything. Whatever. Hope I don’t die on this hunt since I don’t know what I’m going up against’.

His brother always knew how to get to his dad. Knew what movements, what attitudes opened him up without saying a word. Sam’s biggest fault was that his first instinct was to say what he was trying to say, a habit that never ceased to anger and annoy his father.

“I’m going to see if the victims were exsanguinated.”

“If they were drained of blood? Why?” 

“The way these people died, it lines up with patterns I’ve read about. I called Caleb yesterday and he agrees with me. We think it’s vampires.”

“Vampires? You’re kidding.”

“Not even a little bit. All the victims were attacked at night in secluded spots. None of them called the police, none of them survived. While I can’t be certain right now, I have a good feeling I’m right.”

“Ok, how do you kill ‘em?”

“No.”

“Dad…”

“I said no Dean. You and your brother aren’t coming with me. I’m going to confirm what I already know, and then I’m going to hunt it down. You and Sam are going to stay in the motel.”

“Come on Dad, you can’t be serious!”

“I’m dead serious. Just because you’re an adult now doesn’t mean you can go off risking your life every week.”

“You mean like you?”

Sam’s breath hitched in his throat and he hoped that the noise of the engine covered it up enough so they didn’t notice. They had had this conversation before, and Sam had never been a part of it. It was the one thing Dean and his father didn’t agree on, the only argument they ever had.

“Dean,” John muttered into the darkness, lit only by the steady waver of their headlights, endless wilderness broken every few minutes by a sign glowing stark against the quiet trees. The world was sleeping around them. “You know why it’s different.”

“Do I? Dad, I’m twenty years old. I’ve been killing things since I was eight. Why do you still not trust me?”

“This isn’t about trust.”

“What then? Why are you still treating me like a child?”

“It’s not about you. I’m doing this for Sam.”

There was a beat. Though his eyes were shut in the illusion of sleep, Sam could almost feel the eyes on him. Dean, twisting around in his seat so the leather groaned. His dad, shooting furrowed glances through the rearview mirror.

“You’re an adult now, but he’s only sixteen. He could live without me, but not without both of us.”

“You could take him along too, ya know.”

“He doesn’t want to go.” There was a loaded sigh, the creak of movement as he shifted, focus back on the road ahead. “I’ve done my best, but I can’t please you both without risking everything. Sam’s still just a kid, and clearly, he can’t handle this yet. It’s your job to take care of him until he is.”

Even as Dean lapsed into soundlessness, lost in thought, Sam’s hands curled into tight fists over his legs. He fumed, boiling under the surface as he felt each hot breath bounce back at him from the chilled glass and metal. There was a single, fevered thought that paced back and forth in his mind as they drove on through the night.

_ I thought that was your job. _

**July 14th, 1999**

**2:38 PM - Monroeville, Alabama / Royal Inn, Room 117**

There was a heat that seeped through the cracks of the room, persistent and unperturbed by the aging grumble of the AC unit that hung like a piece of cheap plastic jewelry under the motel window.

It was a nicer place then Sam would’ve expected, their usual haunts exclusive to mainly pay by hour dives that fed on the catch of truck stops off the highway. This motel was in the middle of town, sprawling yet mostly empty parking lot opened wide to the quaint four-lane mainstreet. Their dad had wanted them close to where he was, that much Sam knew for certain. He had left first thing in the morning, dressed to the nines in the best suit hustled cash could buy. Sam had watched as the Impala pulled away, it’s dated form blending in with the other small town cars, but it’s rumble cracking like a whip through the silent swelter that prevailed throughout the air.

There was a snap of static followed by the buzzing chirp of televised voices, and Sam turned to see Dean taking up all the room on the small couch-like thing that was placed in front of the T.V. 

“What’re you doing?”

“Filling time Sammy. Dad said to stay alert and entertain ourselves, so that’s what I’m doing.” He must’ve felt the eye roll Sam sent at his back, because he didn’t turn before saying, “Stop judging me stinkface. We don’t have to research, all the weapons are as clean as they’ll ever be, we just ate, and it’s too damn hot out to do any exploring.”

Sam sighed, walking from where he stood by the window to the couch, where he plopped besides his brother, the bumpy material giving only slightly under his weight.

“So Dad finds something in southern Alabama in the middle of summer, and instead of us getting to do anything, he sticks us in the motel to what? Sweat and sit watching T.V. till he gets back?”

“Yeah!” Dean said, his mouth cocked in a laid back grin. “And in a few hours, your favorite will even be on. You still like Jeopardy, right?”

Sam groaned, pressing his back into the scratchy coverlet. “Do you even know when he’ll be back? Did he tell you where he was going before he left? Do you have any idea how long we’ll have to stay here?”

“See, this is why you’d be great at Jeopardy. Always with the questions.”

“I hate you.” Sam said, trying to keep the corners of his mouth from twitching up to match his brother as he punched Dean lightly on the shoulder.

“Bitch.” Dean said, flicking him off while putting his feet up on the small table in front of them.

“Jerk.” Sam responded, knocking said feet off by kicking Dean in the shin. “Didn’t you ever learn to keep your shoes off of furniture?”

“Well it ain’t my furniture so I really couldn’t care less.”

Sam turned back to the T.V. and sighed. He wasn’t really paying attention to the screen, instead playing a game in his mind where he tried to fill it with nothing but white noise and see how long he could make it without having a thought in words. He hadn’t made it past ten seconds when Dean spoke again, his voice soft without the joking tone from earlier.

“Dad told me he was heading to the police station and coroner’s office for information. He said he’d come back tonight so he could get some rest before actually hunting the thing. All he took was his Taurus, he wouldn’t go up against it with just that.”

Sam looked at Dean. Though his brother’s eyes were fixed on the T.V., he could tell he hadn’t been watching either. No matter how much either of them pretended to be nonchalant when their dad was out, there was always this gnawing pit behind their hearts, a pre-ache that whispered it was there just in case… just in case this time their dad didn’t come back. 

He leaned to the side until his shoulder and head rested against his brother, breathing in the scent of leather and cheap cologne and that hint of beer he had made Sam promise to hide from dad. 

Resting on that couch with Dean, Sam wondered if this was home. Not some two-story house with a fenced in yard and a dog, not a dining room table or a bedroom with poster-covered walls, but a person. Someone who he knew would always be there, even if he couldn’t count on anything else. He sighed, closing his eyes and planning on sleeping on Dean until either he was shoved off or his dad came home.

**Six Hours Later**

Sam was woken up by someone shaking his shoulders lightly. It took him a moment to realize it was Dean, his brother muttering something too soft to hear.

“Dean?” He slurred, eyes refusing to focus through the haze of sleep that clung to them. “What’s happening?”

“Dad’s home. He needs help packing so he can head out.”

Sam sat up, pushing off a blanket and swinging his feet so they made contact with the floor.  _ Dean must’ve put me in bed after I fell asleep _ , he thought, before rubbing his eyes and clearing his throat. Winchesters had to be able to wake up and get going quickly, but if anything he felt more tired than he had been before he went to sleep.

“Sam,” Came his father’s impatient grumble. “It isn’t naptime. This thing only comes out at night and lives will be on our hands if we don’t catch it.”

“Yessir.” 

He resisted the urge to snap back with attitude. What did his dad expect? For him to not sleep when stuck in a hot motel room after being on the road for days? Sam let the back of his mind gripe as he went over to the other bed, it’s surface covered in all kinds of weaponry. He let his hands work mindlessly, grabbing and placing items into the open duffel as his father listed them off.

“Machete, sawed-off, the silver knife - no, not that one…”

Dean left, closing the door quietly behind him. John must’ve asked him to fill the car up with gas or organize the hidden trunk compartment so that the bag Sam was currently stuffing would fit. 

He had filled and zipped the bag before his mind got fully online, and realized what exactly he was doing.

“Wait, you’re leaving to kill it  _ now _ ?”

John didn’t respond, instead slinging the bag over his shoulder with one hand and pocketing an extra knife with the other. Sam took his silence for what it meant.

“What about the research? Do you know where to find it, how to kill it, how it’ll try and kill you?” He did his best to keep that gnawing ache from showing in his voice. It was a weakness, and his dad didn’t tolerate weaknesses.

“It’s already killed four people, I’m not gonna take the chance of another dying while I wait around like a coward.”

“That’s not what I’m...”

“Enough, Sam!”

John threw the bag back on the bed and Sam winced, shrunken under his father’s words. Dean came back inside, quiet as ever, and stood behind John as he fumed over his youngest son.

“I’m sick and tired of you questioning me, you hear? This is why I can’t bring you on these types of hunts. All you want to do is sit and wait and think. Well guess what, there’s more at stake here!”

“I just wanna know you’re safe!” Sam yelled back, hating how his voice was a high-pitched warble compared to John’s forceful bark. Talking back was always a bad idea, but he just couldn’t keep it in. His dad didn’t seem to care whether or not he died, whether or not he and Dean were left alone. He wanted to grab his face and scream at him,  _ what kind of dad are you?! _

His question was answered with a sharp snap. Sam felt his head jerk to the right, cheek stinging from the impact with his father’s hand. The corners of his eyes pricked, and a single tear of pain rolled down to his chin. 

But then Dean was there, like he always was, in between John and Sam with his hands raised, like he was trying to tame a wild horse. Their dad might’ve been one after all. A proud mustang, strong and heedless and determined.

“He’s just worried about you dad. He understands what’s at stake, he didn’t mean it like that. Of course he knows why you have to go...”

Excuses, apologies, things Sam should be saying, would be saying if he wasn’t so stubborn, so angry, so scared. But Dean would say them, the only one who could say them. He was Sam’s one defender, the only one who could read both his and John’s minds, the one who always knew what to say. Dean was the good son. Sam was worthless.

They broke apart, John heading to the front door to leave, Sam heading to the back door to breathe. The motel room was unique in another way, it had a back door. There wasn’t much behind the actual motel, just more empty parking lot, but Sam just needed to be  _ out _ .

He headed out into the night, staying close to the hazy yellow buzz of the street lamps that dotted the barren asphalt. Breathing in deep, he thanked whatever powers-that-be that the setting of the sun had taken the overbearing heat of the day with it. However the humidity in the air remained, and every time he breathed in, it felt like he was drinking.

He sat on the curb, unwilling or unable to go back inside even after his father left. There was a hollow feeling in his chest, a pounding empty that seemed to mock him endlessly. He couldn’t face Dean, not after he had fought with John and made Dean clean up their mess. Again.

Thirty minutes passed before Dean came out. Sam could hear the squeak of the door, but not footsteps. Dean wasn’t joining him on the curb then.

“I’m going out,” He called, voice ringing in the still air. “Heading to whatever the nearest bar is.”

There was a short pause.

“Don’t tell dad I went drinking.”

He waited for a few more seconds, and then he heard the door shut. Sam sighed, stretching out his legs so the heels of his sneakers scraped against the ground, kicking up gravel.

They would finish this hunt, they would speak the bare minimum of words to each other, and then eventually him and his dad would fight again. The endless cycle of the Winchesters, with Dean smack dab in the middle. Sam hated doing this to his brother, hated how he didn’t know how to stop it. All he knew was that it was his life, the life of a hunter. And he sucked at it.

A part of him had always said, ever since he held his first gun, that it was wrong, that he was bad at this. That when it came to hunting, to his family, he was absolutely worthless. He was a burden to them, and he would never be good enough for his dad.

Standing to go inside, he was confused for a moment by a shadow that had covered the light that was behind him. Something hard and cold cracked against the back of his head. There was a sharp keening sound, like warped laughter, his eyelids fluttered, and then he knew nothing else.


	2. Big Boys Don't Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean experiences man-pain and Sam experiences pain-pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it isn't my favorite chapter so far, but it'll do.

**July 15th, 1999**

**1:05 AM - Monroeville, Alabama / Unidentified Location**

Sam wanted to cry, but he had run his tears dry. Crying, sobbing for hours now. It had to have been hours, but he couldn’t be sure. They took his watch, they took everything, leaving him exposed. 

_ What would dad say? _

Every thirteen seconds, another needle of water pierced his skin from the walls of the cage he had been stuffed in. For a moment he welcomed the heat from the blood that rushed to the spot the water hit. But the irritated area paled too fast, leaving nothing but the water dripping down onto the floor. He was sitting in a puddle, feet folded under him, back curved against the wall. It was metal, and the cold seemed to radiate and bounce off every surface, magnifying itself like light on a mirror.

He had woken up, naked and alone in this cage. His only company was the water. There were new cuts all over his body, tiny raised red lines that criss-crossed across his skin, and the back of his head ached. If he had been able to move his arms, he would have reached back to feel if there was blood.

His breath, heavy and hard to keep steady, created clouds of mist that rose as far as they could, circling around his head. They condensed on his eyelashes, drops glistening on the edge of his vision, like early morning dew on blades of grass. He could feel himself crystallizing, frost spreading across his skin, but he couldn’t move, he couldn’t shake free. All he could do was shiver, and wait. Trapped with himself and the water and the cold.

_ What would dad say? _

**July 14th, 1999**

**10:57 PM - Monroeville, Alabama / Outside Liquor Store**

Dean hated this town. Not only were there no bars to be found, but the nearest Liquor store was an hour walk from the motel. He cursed, twisting the cap off the whiskey bottle he’d bought. 

He just needed to get away sometimes. It wasn’t like he didn’t love his family, he would die for them in a heartbeat. But why did he always have to be the buffer between his dad and Sam? Why could the two of them never seem to stop fighting? Grimacing as the alcohol burned this throat, he stewed in his own thoughts. 

_ I can’t believe dad would go off like that, hunting down a creature none of us have seen before, just going out into the night without back up. He always says he needs us, that it’s important we know how to fight. But when it comes to shit like this he always leaves us behind. _

He groaned, dropping onto the sidewalk just outside the glass doors of the store. He didn’t care if the 60-something cashier was staring at him.  _ Sam was right, we shouldn't just let him go like that. Then again, Dad was also right. Sam is amazing at so much, but when it comes to killing things… _

Sam was the one who wanted to research the monsters instead of hunt them. Unless they were already dead or too far gone to reason with, Sam would plead with their dad, tell him that this could be solved without violence. He was always wrong, but his belief in the fact that there was good inside everything never wavered. Even when they were clearing out ghosts, Sam had told Dean he was doing it to set them free, not to destroy them.

He still remembered the first time Sam had been an active participant in a hunt for something alive. They were after a fresh werewolf, a milk run for Dean and John. Just in and out their dad had said, Sam knew how to shoot, had already helped to get rid of three spirits. They were so confident. But when it came time to make the final shot, Sam hesitated, missed by a mile. Dean was thrown through a wall and broke his collarbone plus two ribs and his left leg. Sam had never forgiven himself. John hadn’t forgiven him either.

_ Maybe we should just let him be _ .  _ I only want us to be together, a team. _

He would talk to Sam, help him with his training, get him ready so that their dad would trust them to have his back. That would solve things. He stood up, wobbling slightly, and dropped the half-empty bottle, watching it roll back down the street with a noisy clanking. Grumbling about his life, he began to walk back the way he came, following the path of the whiskey that had spilled from the rolling bottle.

**One Hour Later**

There were many things Dean was prepared to see when he came back to the motel room. His dad, covered in blood, sitting on the edge of his bed with a machete in his hand and a faraway look in his eyes, wasn’t one of them. 

They didn’t exchange any words. Hell, John didn’t even look at Dean as he tiptoed past him to the bathroom. He might’ve been twenty and a criminal for numerous reasons already, but he knew his dad didn’t like him drinking. Especially when they were on a hunt or when he was in charge of Sam. He never told him why, but Dean had a small suspicion that it was because his dad didn’t want Dean to turn into him.

He shut the bathroom door with a soft click, letting out a huff of air when his dad didn’t call his name. There wasn’t much that could be compared to his father’s wrath. A werewolf or wendigo might give you a black eye or a bruised rib, but when his dad was mad it made him feel like he was nothing. That horrible trembling pounding in his chest that came from his dad’s disappointment was worse than any hospital visit. 

Dean tried his best to wash the stench of whiskey from his face and hands. He brushed his teeth for good measure as well, but he knew there would be no fooling his father. He just had to hope he wouldn’t care with everything else going on. 

Walking out, he perched himself on the end of the other bed, glancing at his father out of the corner of his eye. 

“Where’s Sam?” Came the unexpected grumble. John’s voice was often rough after a hunt, especially difficult ones. When it came down to the big fight, there was a lot of yelling and screaming. 

It took Dean a moment to process his father’s words, confusion at Sam being his father’s first thought a chilly fog in his mind.

“He, uh… took a breather outside.”

John scoffed, then stood. He tossed the machete so it clattered onto the table Dean’s feet had called home earlier that day. The blood that covered it looked black in the hazy, glass diluted moonlight.

“How did it go?” Dean dared to ask as his dad started pulling off his dirty and ragged outer layers. His first jacket was just as stained as the machete, all of its seams ripped or stretched to some degree. The flannel that was under it wasn’t much better, until at last all he was left with was a t-shirt and the mess on his skin, crawling down his arms and neck and splattered across his cheek.

“Killed it.” He muttered, almost reminding Dean of a caveman, shunning extra syllables. He dropped back onto Dean’s bed, not laying down, just sitting and staring at the wall.

“I meant,” Dean continued, eyeing the new bruises that were hidden under the drying blood, the tentative way his dad moved, as if he were trying not to shift his side too much. “What happened?”

John sighed. He wasn’t much for recounting hunts, but neither was he dumb enough to not give a description of the fight and his wounds. Refusing their own sort of medical attention never did any of them well.

“I found the thing in one of the alleys it had already hunted in. Damn creature had this girl by the throat. She was already dead. I shot it a few times with silver, did nothing. It came at me, we scuffled for a bit. It was strong as hell, but eventually, one good swing to the neck and it was over.”

The trained hunting part of Dean’s brain filed away that information for later use, while the concerned part as already trying to spot exactly where his dad was injured.

“How bad?” He decided to ask, knowing that there was always a possibility of wounds he couldn’t see. 

“I think a bruised rib, few cuts here and there. Mostly it’s just my side that hit a wall when that fucker threw me.”

Dean nodded, and got up to grab the first aid kit they kept at the ready. His dad didn’t say anything else, didn’t move. The room was silent and still, like the air had been replaced with lead. Dean tossed his dad a few painkillers and he swallowed them dry. He used eight band-aids on the side of his face and wrapped his ribs in gauze, John barely grimacing as he pulled the fabric tight. 

Sometimes they celebrated after a hunt. Sometimes they got food and sat down together and watched shit television all night and had ice-cream or some other luxury. Those were the hunts where no one got hurt, where they saved the day. Not the ones where they came home injured and said things like ‘she was already dead.’ Dean knew it was those hunts, those monsters, those victims, that made his dad question everything.

Many years ago, when Dean was still a freshman in high school, John had gotten drunk. He came home at 3am, stumbling past the line of salt and slumping against the walls for support. It was just coincidence that Dean had been up, he was getting a glass of water. Instead, he ran into his father.

Most people would think that a man like John would be an angry drunk. Screaming slurs into the night and swinging at anyone or anything that got too close. But Dean knew the truth. After so many shots, John would sit down, grasp his hands together, and pray. He would sit on the bed or by a window and pray, tears streaming down his cheeks as he muttered words Dean could never hope to understand. 

The night he saw Dean, he called him over in a whisper, and pulled him into his lap, something that Dean had outgrown in elementary school. He had cradled him in his arms, sobbing, over and over again saying the same thing.

_ “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry Dean, please understand I’m sorry.” _

It took Dean a while to figure out what his dad meant back then. But now he saw it, hidden behind the righteous anger in his father’s eyes. 

John hadn’t truly meant for this to be their life. More than anything, he wanted them to be safe, to be loved, to be a family. But in their world, there was no such thing as safe. There was no love without despair, without loss. And their family had been taken from them. 

Dean finished taking care of his father, and went to the other bed. Collapsing onto his back and throwing his arms to either side. He stared up at the stucco ceiling, and tried to imagine what it would have been like. A family, peace, safety. He used to see it with other kids, back when he went to school. They stayed after for drama clubs and complained that their parents curfew was too early, they brought homemade cupcakes and dated and went to see movies and took the bus when their parents had work.

He used to see it in Sam. The way he made sure to always do his homework, how he would hide packets and worksheets in the pages of lore books to fool dad, how he learned to field strip weapons faster than Dean just so he could spend more time at the library. Surrounded by everything they did, what they were, he was always just so… normal.

Dean would be lying if he said he didn’t envy the kid sometimes. Sam didn’t take it in like he and dad did. Didn’t accept that he couldn’t have everything. It was just this spark of something. That muscle twitch in a kid’s cheek that signaled the beginning of a smile, the hint of a squeal in their voice when they were excited. It was what Dean knew hope to be. Pure, unburdened hope. He saw it in his brother, and he wished he saw it when he looked in the mirror.

But if his dad didn’t want Dean to be like him, it was too late. No amount of apologies could turn back the clock far enough. He just hoped… he just prayed that Sam would make it out when he couldn’t. That he would be able to keep that spark, even if it had to be buried deep inside him. As long as it didn’t go out.

He sighed, looked back at his dad. He hadn’t moved. Just staring at the wall, hands clamped together. No psychiatrist in the world would’ve been able to figure out what he was thinking in moments like these, but Dean liked to think that he could. He liked to think that his dad was thinking the same thing he was, alone in that silent room, six feet apart and feeling like they were on different sides of the universe.

_ Please let Sam be okay. If nothing else… let him have what we couldn’t. _

  
  
  


**July 15th, 1999**

**1:23 AM - Monroeville, Alabama / Unidentified Location**

Sam hadn’t realized that the cage door was below him. 

He was dropped unceremoniously onto cold stone. He cried out as the ankle that had been sitting under him hit the floor first, twisting in on itself with a loud and echoing pop. It was the first thing to break the silence, but it was soon followed by that same warped laughter he remembered hearing outside the motel. His eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the room so he heard instead of saw a door open somewhere in front of him.

Two sets of heavy footsteps, the laughing grew louder and more clear. It wasn’t from humor, and it wasn’t the kind of laugh that Sam had so often heard, the one to cover up pain. It was hoarse, breathless madness. A chuckle that could’ve easily turned into a scream.

There was a hand on his head, dragging him up by the hair. He gasped, fresh tears blooming as his hair was pulled, the cut and bump on the back of his head burning as spikes of pain shot through his brain like lightning. Instinctively, his own hands flew up to try and free himself, but he could barely tense his muscles enough to make a difference through the cold tremors that rocked his frame.

“Look at this one!” Came the voice of the hand lifting him off the ground. “Thinks he’s a fighter.” The laughter pierced his ears and Sam wanted nothing more than to be out of their grasp and away from that sound.

“That’s  _ enough _ Ernest.” The new man was clearly bored and exasperated, but his words were firm and Sam was dropped once more. As soon as he hit the floor he attempted to roll away, gritting his teeth as his skin scraped against the stone, digging into the cuts and putting pressure on his broken ankle. 

Someone kicked him in the side and he sprawled backwards with a gasp of air, wanting to, but unable to curl around his ribs. 

“Well, aren’t you pathetic.” The bored man said, and Sam realized he had been the one to kick him. He blinked up into the darkness, trying to make out a face, but all he got was a shadow where a person would be. It may have been a trick of the light, or even a concussion, but he couldn’t see a single feature of humanity.

“I suppose me and my colleagues were mistaken in our assumption about your abilities, young hunter.” The shadow drawled, the hint of a southern accent clear through his uninterested tone. “You could say we overestimated you.”

Another kick, this one below his ribs right into his stomach. Sam groaned, turning his head so that he could drive his forehead into the ground, the pain in his gut radiating up and out through his body. 

“But that’s alright,” A kick to his shoulder, knocking him over so he was laying prone on his back, “We can still have some fun.”

Sam decided it was best not to move in his current state with his current company, and so he laid still as the shadow kneeled next to him, dragging a hand down his arm.

“What’s your name?” The shadow asked, and he sounded so concerned and caring that it made Sam want to burst into another round of useless tears. He said nothing.

The shadow placed a hand around his neck, squeezing lightly but not cutting off air flow. A muted threat. 

“I’m Sam.” 

The response hadn’t been one Sam expected. While the shadow seemed mostly unaffected, the others hissed, shaken and angry like a rattlesnake’s tail.    


“Forgive them Samuel, it’s just that that name brings up… recent wounds.” He removed his hand from Sam’s throat, and patted him gently on the cheek before standing. 

“Chain him to the wall for now,” He said to the one on Sam’s right, “We’ll wait a bit before we begin. Don’t want to make it go too quickly now.”

Sam was yanked backwards by his arm, his bruised shoulder screaming as it was nearly ripped out of its socket. There was more cold metal as cuffs were clamped around his wrists. Again his hair was tugged, pulling his head back so the man could fasten a metal collar around his neck. Sam was starting to understand why his dad and Dean told him to cut his hair so often. 

As quickly as he had come, the man behind him was gone. Their footsteps retreated and the heavy door opened and closed once more. Sam hung, cold and quivering on the wall, his knees just touching the floor and his arms raised high above him. There was no chain on the collar, it was bolted directly to the wall so he couldn’t look down. 

Unable to do much of anything, Sam slowly shifted his legs so that his broken ankle was no longer crushed and twisted underneath him, before leaning his head back as far as he could.

_ Please let Dean get here soon. _

  
  


**July 15th, 1999**

**7:17 AM - Monroeville, Alabama / Royal Inn, Room 117**

Dean didn’t wake up until he accidentally rolled off the bed, hitting the floor with a groan and laying there for a moment before actually sitting up. 

He hated mornings with a passion, and would prefer to just not sleep at all if he knew he had to be up early the next day. That and the fact that the last thing he remembered was coming home and cleaning his father’s wounds after drinking most of a bottle of whiskey. To be honest, it wasn’t the most he had drank in one sitting, but it would still probably be a good idea to check his medical work nonetheless. 

Standing and twisting around to crack his back, Dean scanned for signs of life within the small room. The other bed looked like it had been slept in, although whether that had been his dad or Sam, Dean was unsure. If Sam hadn’t come back inside before John had fallen asleep, he probably would’ve just taken the couch. Or maybe their dad hadn’t gone to bed at all. The whole three people, two bed situation was more a problem for people who didn’t suffer from constant nightmares and insomnia.

Still, it left the fact that there seemed to be no one else there at the moment. Although he didn’t hear any running water, Dean checked the bathroom anyway. He wanted to roll his eyes at himself when he noticed his heart start to steadily speed up, an irritating twitch in his gut telling him to look harder.

He knew Sam would never stay outside, even after a fight, but he checked the back lot anyway. There was an old exhaust pipe in one of the parking spots closer to the motel that he hadn’t seen before, but it probably wouldn’t have been too noticeable in the dark anyway. 

Going back inside, Dean was a little too relieved to see a note stuck to the table with a small knife, clearly his father’s work. He ripped the paper from it’s hold and scanned the smudged and scraggly handwriting.

_ ‘Dean, _

_ At local diner for breakfast. A mile or so north down the road. Meet me here. _

  * _Dad’_



As usual, John was his flowery, poetic self. Dean scoffed, shoving the paper into the pocket of his jeans, not really caring if it got messed up with whatever else he had in there. He tugged the knife from the wood and tucked it neatly in between his belt and waistband before checking that he had all his other tools and shrugging on a jacket.

Assuming dad had taken Sam with him since the kid was such a freaking early bird, Dean took a few deep breaths and tried to ignore that stupid, itching tug. Even though John would’ve noticed if Sam never came back in, he had to see that dumbass smile and girly hair. Just to be sure.

He confirmed that he had at least a few dollars in cash for whatever bus was running and the motel room key. He tried not to look back as he left, there was no point in feeding into his own unreasonable paranoia. 

  
  


**July 15th, 1999**

**7:55 AM - Monroeville, Alabama / Huddle House**

John knew the other patrons of the small restaurant were staring at him, probably with more thought than he had staring at his own plate of whipped cream topped waffles. They had been sitting there for nearly ten minutes, and he had yet to even pick up his fork, completely befuddled in his own mind.

He wasn’t sure when, but he knew he’d accidentally fallen asleep last night. He had planned on staying up till Sam stopped pouting and came back inside, not wanting but  _ needing _ to explain to his youngest son, to apologize maybe, he still wasn’t sure.

No matter how many years John spent as a father, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to successfully ride the line between strength and compassion. He could tell if someone was lying to his face, but actually managing the muddy waters of conflict de-escalation had never been his strong suit. Talking wasn’t in his nature. Every bone in his body, when faced with a problem, told him to fight. He raised his sons on that principal, and tried his best to prepare them for any fight they might encounter. Of course it wasn’t that simple, it never was. Singer had actually told him once that he could never completely understand his boys, and that one of the joys of parenthood was discovering that. Most of the time John had no idea what the hell that man was saying.

He’d left the room as soon as he had woken up, wondering if Sam had slept on the couch, if he had slept at all. That kid had more nightmares than John himself, which was sort of impressive, if you could call it that. Regardless of their questionable sleeping schedules, he knew Dean would take care of him. Even if a tiny voice in his head was whispering about how Dean had been out drinking, how he had come home even after John, how he went to bed without checking on his brother.

John sighed and took a sip of his now lukewarm coffee. Dean would take care of Sam. Always had, always would. It was the one thing John could count on, like the certitude that his gun was loaded, and then the invariable fact that there was no such thing as ‘finished’ when it came to hunting. 

Dean would get there soon, with a probably still upset Sam in tow, and they would sit down and have an awkwardly quiet breakfast. Eventually Sam would open up a bit and ask about the hunt, then they would leave and find the next monster in the next town.

Finally, the door opened and Dean stepped inside, his expression a mask of very carefully hidden concern. John knew the look well, in fact he had perfected it.

“Dean?” He asked, scanning his son for something wrong, because something had to be wrong.

“Hey dad, Sam in the bathroom or something?”

John furrowed his brow. Yeah, something was definitely wrong. 

“What do you mean? I woke up and went for a drive, then came here. I haven’t seen Sam since last night when I left.”

“Are you saying he didn’t come back in?”

“How the hell would I know Dean? I left before you even woke up.”

John could see the gears turning in his oldest’s mind, but his own thought process had already come to its conclusion. It wasn’t like Sam hadn’t pulled something like this before, especially after a fight, but John had thought he had passed the ‘running away’ phase. He was sixteen freaking years old, he should’ve known better.

He growled, tossing a crumpled twenty on the table next to his uneaten breakfast. Grabbing Dean’s arm, he dragged him behind him as he headed out the door to the car. 

“That stupid kid, stupid, stupid.” He said, muttering under his breath, letting Dean go to unlock the driver’s side door before throwing the keys over the hood to him.

“I swear,” He hissed as he got in and turned it on, “if I have to put out an APB on that kid like last time I’m going to kill him.”

Dean stayed silent in the passenger seat, staring out the windshield with an ineligible expression drawn over his face. Glancing down, John could see him twisting one of the bracelets he wore, fingernails scraping against the protective symbols.

He turned the stereo on, spinning the dial until the heart of the music shook the car’s frame and rattled under their seats. They swerved onto the road, skinning the front tire on the curb. 

This was not a good day for the Winchesters.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was out so late today, but I had work!
> 
> Next chapter will be up by Thursday the 4th


	3. In Which the Plot, Behaving in Much Manner Of a Soup to which Corn Starch Has been Added, Begins, at Last, to Thicken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is having a rough time and everyone else is just existing I guess.
> 
> CW FOR GRAPHIC VIOLENCE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I know this is like... over two weeks late but ya girl has school and two jobs XD. I'll try to work on it a bit more but the next chapter probably won't be out this Thursday, I do want to graduate. 
> 
> If you want updates on when chapters are up you can subscribe or comment and I'll reply when I finish
> 
> Huge thank you to Apolloshalo for reminding me that this existed!
> 
> (Please heed the content warning we start off strong here)

**July 15th, 1999**

**8:03 AM - Monroeville, Alabama / Unidentified Location**

“Gah!” Sam screamed, his voice ripping through his throat. He could taste blood at the back of his mouth, the Shadow wrenching his big toe up and bending it past the knuckle. It snapped backwards, the sound of bone breaking echoing hollowly.

“Please, please…” he cried, his entire body trembling with the struggle of staying upright. Every time he leaned against the wall or threatened to fall over, the Shadow took his foot in his hands - the one that had broken when he had first fallen - and crushed something. At first it was just the smallest toe, and then all of them one by one. 

“Samuel, Samuel. All you have to do is stand here.” The Shadow said, his dark hair hanging over his eyes. He never looked at Sam’s face, all his attention on tracing the flurry of bruises that had turned Sam’s foot into a mosaic of black and blue and purple. His cold fingers caressed the creases between what had been Sam’s toes, pressing into the skin as it started to swell, never letting the nerves rest.

Sam tried to stay still, the Shadow letting go of his foot so he could resume standing. As he placed it back on the ground, a sharp whistle of air left Sam’s mouth, lips parted so he could breathe through the mess of snot and tears that covered his face. He shook, shutting his eyes against the darkness and trying to balance on his good foot, legs wailing at the effort.

The Shadow crouched in front of him, smiling, waiting to grab his foot again. He didn’t have to wait very long. With a broken sob, Sam’s knees buckled, and he fell into the Shadow’s waiting arms. He was shoved back into the wall, head hitting the stone with a sickening thud that reverberated down to his teeth. And yet he didn’t pass out. He almost wished he had. The Shadow snatched his foot and dragged it towards him, no longer smiling but looking incredibly disappointed.

“And to think, this was the easy one.”

With that, he placed one hand on the ball of Sam’s foot, the other on his ankle, and twisted. Sam’s throat was bleeding, so what had been a scream turned into some sort of wet, gurgling cough as his body broke from the inside, lungs scraped raw from overuse. The bones in the middle of his foot had been driven through the skin, bent and broken until the foot resembled some sort of deformed ‘L’, mangled toes brushing against his heel.

The Shadow let Sam go, dropping him to the floor where he curled into a messy heap. There was an electric buzz that hummed on the surface of his skin as his body tried to process the pain, whimpers streaming from his mouth though he tried to stay silent, all of his training telling him to show strength no matter what. He bit his lip, forcing himself to concentrate, to focus on something else, anything else. 

“Oh no,” the Shadow said, stroking his cheek lightly, “keep going. I so greatly enjoy the sound of your suffering.”

He stomped on Sam’s ankle, driving the exposed bone into the ground, driving it back in halfway, crooked. The scream was like razor blades down his throat, but he couldn’t stop, and the sound of the Shadow’s laugh was cruel and cold over it’s broken desperation.

When the stabbing, bone-deep agony subsided into something that wasn’t completely debilitating, Sam blinked up through the haze of his vision at the man – no, the  _ thing _ – that was torturing him. He didn’t try and stop his whimpers and sobs this time. He could’ve sworn he saw the Shadow smile. Once again, he kneeled so that he was at Sam’s level, studying him closely.

In the Shadow’s depraved eyes Sam saw only mild intrigue, their time together merely a way to combat his boredom. Torture was his way to pass the time.

“You know Samuel, I’ve looked into your family. You see, I have a family of my own, and we look out for one another.” The sentiment seemed sincere, but his tone never wavered. Always tired, always dull.

He pulled a small knife from one of the dark folds in his heavy coat, it’s blade no longer than Sam’s finger, and began to trace it lightly down Sam’s cheek, like he was trying to scrape tears from skin.

“Even before your father came after us, one of my brothers watched you, knew you were hunters. We even found out the name of the last school you attended.”

He was looking directly into Sam’s eyes, gauging his reactions, measuring his response. Sam had seen his father do the same thing to so many others, it was odd to be on the receiving end.

“But that wasn’t the most interesting thing we found. Do you want to know what it was?”

Sam tried to turn away, scared to close his eyes but unwilling still to meet the Shadow’s merciless gaze. The Shadow chuckled, flicking the knife over to his ear and following Sam’s line of sight with a tilt of his head.

“It was your father. He was… preoccupied. While you two were waiting at that tiny little thing you call a motel, he was looking for us yes, but most curiously, he had quite a fascinating phone call.”

Sam quivered at the giddy excitement in the Shadow’s voice. Something had turned this into more than a pastime, more than a game of revenge. There was something that his dad did, something that  _ intrigued  _ the Shadow.

“I bet you don’t even know the secret that he keeps. I bet your brother doesn’t either. It’s about you Samuel, it's one of the reasons we wanted  _ you _ .”

The door opened and two others came in. Although there was a dull ring in his ears, Sam guessed by their footsteps that they were the ones that were with him earlier. They walked up to stand just behind the Shadow as he continued.

“At first, we were just gonna kill you, simple-like. Three hunters is nothing to my family, nothing at all. But your father, he moved quicker than we had expected. That very same night, he killed one of our own, and we knew then that his punishment would be greater than death.”

For the first time there was almost something akin to sadness in the Shadow’s voice, hidden carefully behind crafted anger and apathy. The two men went around the Shadow, picking Sam up off the floor and putting him back in his chains. They were absolutely silent, refusing to meet Sam’s eyes as they fastened the handcuffs.

“We could’ve taken your brother – Dean, I think it was, the obedient one – in fact, we were planning on it. Take the great John Winchester’s only asset and leave him with his bumbling, useless, pathetic excuse for a son, let alone a hunter.” He stood, grabbing Sam’s chin and holding his face steady.

He took the knife from where he had balanced it next to Sam’s ear, and dragged it over his skin until it was just below his eye, along the waterline, the tip of the blade scratching his eyelashes.

Sam closed his hand into a fist, digging his nails into his palms and waiting for the pain he knew was about to come, the Shadow’s voice echoing in the vacant chamber of his mind. An errant and soft-voiced thought flit behind the fear, a fact he had read in some obscure textbook.

‘ _ Underneath the eyelid is one of the most painful areas on the body to be cut or injured.’ _

“But then, we decided to follow your father home. On the way, he got a very interesting phone call. Would you like to know what it was, Samuel?”

The only response Sam could muster was an incoherent moan, his trembling lips unable to form words.

“It was about you, you know.”

One of the men pulled out something, his movements unbelievably fast, not more than a blink out of the corner of Sam’s eye, and Sam felt something piercing his skin on the side of his neck.

“Wha… what are you… doing…” He panted, eyes wide with fear. They had dosed him with something, they had  _ dosed _ him. 

“It’s nothing that you shouldn’t be able to handle,” the Shadow whispered, just to him, ignoring the others as they left the room, dropping the syringe on the floor so it bounced and clinked against stone. Sam watched the gleaming glass roll into the darkness. “That is, of course, if what we heard about you is true.”

He leaned in even closer, the tip of his nose brushing against Sam’s hair, lifting it out of his face.

“Don’t worry, it’s just a harmless little experiment. Since we have you, we’re going to make the most of it.”

He pulled away and Sam shivered, although whether it was from the cold or the contact he had no clue. The solid tenebrosity of the room descended on Sam, crawling across his vision.

“I will be back soon, Samuel. After all, we have plenty of time.”

The Shadow turned, his coat whispering over the floor, a soundless ghost disappearing into the darkness. The only proof of his existence was the sound of the door as it shut behind him. Sam let his tears flow uninterrupted, his weight on his wrists as he lost the strength to try and pull himself up. The smooth edges of his metal collar dug into his jaw as his head rolled to the side.

There was a peculiar feeling that began to radiate throughout him, coming from his heart. It beat faster, hotter, louder. His breathing came in ragged gasps, and it felt like his blood was boiling under the freezing surface of his skin.

“Help…” he croaked to nothing, to no one, the world around him as still and silent as the grave. “Help me… please…”

The only response he got was the endless drone of the fan, and the wet, panicked thumping of his heart.

“Dean!” He yelled to the empty room, his entire body shaking with the effort it took to raise his voice, but the cold stone gave him no answer. He collapsed into himself slowly, slouching onto his chains, the pull of unconsciousness dragging him into silence even as his heart sped faster and faster.

“Dean…” he whispered, struggling to keep his eyes open.  _ I just need to wait,  _ He thought.  _ He’ll be here soon. Dean will be here, he’ll be -- _

**July 15th, 1999**

**9:18 AM - Monroeville, Alabama / Royal Inn, Room 117**

Dean couldn’t move. His breath was solid, a crawling, spiked thing that had stuck itself behind his tongue. Every muscle in his body was tensed for some type of fight, but all he had was himself, his missing brother, and his father fuming before him.

“Dad --” he tried to begin, despising the way his voice was so weak, so unsure. He needed to be strong for Sam, he needed to know what to do.

“He did it again, Dean. One sign of trouble and he left. I have half the mind to leave him this time.” John was pacing in front of the beds, feet dragging across thin carpet until Dean was sure it would leave permanent track marks. 

“How do you know he ran away?” Dean asked, and it was quiet, hardly a question at all. He was just so scared. Something about this felt  _ wrong _ . There was a tenor in his bones, like his marrow had rotted, spreading decay into his bloodstream, pumping it through his heart and feeding into his brain. He could feel himself shutting down, fear and confusion refusing to let him think rationally, only repeating the same thing over and over.

_ Get him back, save Sam, need Sam here, get him back…. _

“Of course he ran away! Hell that boy’s tried running so many damn times, don’t you remember Flagstaff? He challenges my authority, and then leaves when he doesn’t get his way! You know what? I’m through with this shit. Let him leave. He doesn’t want to kill? Fine. Let’s see how long he lasts on his own.”

“Dad, please…”

“No, I’m fucking done. I’ve done my best. I’ve tried to keep him close for his own good, made sure he was… safe.”

Dean’s eyes flickered up at his dad’s pause, but John wasn’t looking at him. He stared at the floor, body language inscrutable. His shoulders were hunched forward and his hands were curled into tight fists. Dean could see veins rising from under the skin on his neck.

“Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe… goddammit I don’t know!” He screamed, hitting his palm against the wall. Dean almost expected to see a crack there when he took his hand away, or at least to hear some yelling and curses from the residents of the room next door, but they were only greeted by silence. 

“What do you mean by that?”

John sighed, putting his hands on his face and dragging them down it like he was trying to pull the exhaustion from his expression.

“Nothing Dean, nothing it’s just that… well I have no idea what I’m doing.” He sat down on the couch where Dean and Sam had been watching Jeopardy only yesterday,  _ only yesterday _ .

“I don’t know how to make him understand without driving him away,” he said, his head falling back so it hung over the back of the couch, his eyes closed and brow furrowed. “God, what am I doing wrong here?”

Dean didn’t have an answer for his father. To be honest, he didn’t even really know how to talk to Sam sometimes, the kid was so stubborn. But he was still family, and Dean knew that no matter what it took, he wouldn’t lose him like this.

“I’m gonna try his cell.” He said, standing and walking past his father to be closer to the window where there was better reception.

“Dean, he’s not gonna answer. He never answers, even when he’s here.”

Dean cursed as the phone buzzed at him angrily, unable to get a strong enough signal even as he beat the buttons senselessly with his fingers. There was a molten anger rising in him, his body’s natural reaction to the fear that had been mucking up his system.

“I’m gonna go out back, try again.” He said. John sat up a bit at this and followed Dean with his eyes as the young hunter stormed through the back door, mirroring his brother’s actions the night before.

After a moment, he got up and followed him, hating that there was nothing else he could do. Afterall, Winchesters were men of action.

Dean was standing just outside the back door, his head tilted upwards and eyes on the silent and dark streetlight above him as he held the phone to his ear. John lingered in the open doorway, watching his son. 

There was a pause, and then a sound that gave both men shivers despite the climbing temperatures of a midday summer in Alabama. Dean and John turned to follow it, only now spotting the glint of metal among the shimmering asphalt, hidden in one of the many shadows so elongated it was hard to tell where they came from.

On the ground, near the exhaust pipe Dean had seen earlier and written off as nothing, was a phone. Small, black, nondescript, and buzzing, rattling on the ground in it’s own, mechanical death throes. 

“Oh God…” Dean whispered, his hands beginning to shake so violently that both of his arms were trembling up to his shoulders. “Oh please God no.”

He dropped his own phone and started running to his brother’s, John calling after him.

“Dean! Goddammit Dean!”

Dean ignored his father, all of his attention on the phone on the ground. He bent down and gently scooped it into his palm. He cradled it as the ringing faded, eyes locked on the screen.

_ One missed call from  _

_ ‘D’ _

“Dean,” John said, trying to hide his own exhaustion in the face of Dean’s tireless drive. “He could’ve dropped it on purpose. He knows how to track someone through its GPS better than anyone.”

Dean just shook his head mutely. His breath nestled in his throat, laughing, mocking him, blocking his airway and filling him up until he felt like he would burst from the inside.

“What proof do you have, Dean? There’s nothing that would’ve taken him here. The vampire was dead when this happened.”

Dean wanted to shout at his father.  _ I can feel it! That should be enough proof. I know something is wrong, I felt off at Flagstaff but this is  _ **_different_ ** _ , why can’t you tell?!” _

Instead, he kneeled on the asphalt, tucking Sam’s phone into his back pocket in order to have a free hand to pick up the other strange item. He turned the bent and dented exhaust pipe in his hands, and heard his father’s gasp and groan as he revealed the other side.

There was a fresh dent near the bent end, deep enough to show on the other side. It was spotted and blotched with dark brown flakes that rubbed off into a fine dust that fell on Dean’s fingers. It was blood, dried blood.

“Something tells me there must’ve been something that would’ve taken him,” He said, looking up at John with an inferno behind his eyes. “Something took him, Dad.”

John stared down at the pipe, fingers twitching over where he had put his gun into his waist-belt. No one messed with his boys.

John and Dean turned in sync, heading back to the room in order to prepare themselves for whatever was ahead of them.

_ My brother’s blood is not the only blood that will have been spilt when I’m done with these monsters. _ Dean thought to himself, his hands no longer shaking out of fear, but out of a need to fight, to kill. He would kill them all.

_ I’m coming Sam _ .

**July 15th, 1999**

**11:00 AM - Monroeville, Alabama / Unidentified Location**

Sam woke up gasping for air, a new face hovering before him. As his eyes opened and breath came rushing through his lungs the person in front of him stepped back. He blinked, trying to breathe, trying to see, to figure out what had happened. After a few moments, the person spoke.

“Are you okay?” A woman asked, seeming disproportionately concerned.

Sam peered through the darkness so he could see her, and she came forward again.

“Who are you?” He croaked, grimacing at how his voice scraped across the raw nerves in his scabbed throat.

She brought a glass to his lips, and he almost choked in his haste to swallow the cool water she offered. When the cup was empty, the woman placed it on the ground before wiping Sam’s brow with a damp washcloth. He closed his eyes, letting out his breath as she lifted the blood and dried sweat from his skin.

“My name is Florestine, but everyone calls me Flora.” Her voice was no more than a whisper, trembling and nervous. 

“Flora, I’m Sam.”

“Oh… no wonder they were so mad.”

“What are you -” He broke off to cough, spitting out hot red droplets. His head fell forward, jaw digging into the collar. Flora brought the rag back up and wiped his mouth, her hands were shaking.

“What are you talking about?” Sam managed to groan after he had swallowed what was left of his blood.

“Our brother, the one your father killed, his name was Samuel.”

“...oh.”

“He was sort of like you, at least, from what I’ve heard.” She leaned in closer, so he could see the dim light glinting in the whites of her eyes. They were a deep brown, but rimmed in red, her veins like streaks of scarlet lightning branching from under her eyelids. “Is it true, what they say?”

Sam’s chains clanked as he leaned away from her intense, bloodshot stare. The thrumming wrongness that had been sitting under his skin from when they’d dosed him began to buzz, speeding up his heart and making his hair stand on its end.

“What are you?”

“You should already know, and besides, I asked you first.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. 

“Are you a vampire? If what my dad killed was your brother, you must be.”

“Well,” she said, sighing, “he wasn’t my real brother, not really. My real family died almost a hundred years ago. This is just my nest.”

“Your nest? How many -”

“Not that many anymore. It was just the five of us really. A few others came and went.”

“He said… he said you were family.”

“You mean Cassian.”

“Is he the one, the one that’s been in here?”

Flora looked down, almost as if she was ashamed. There was still something about her that was wrong, but as she kneeled on the floor in front of him, twisting the bloodstained rag in her hands, he couldn’t help but feel a rush of pity.

“Cassian brought us together. First Samuel, then Finn, Ernest and me. We were stronger together, we looked out for each other. But they always wanted more. More prey, more blood, more ‘brothers’-” she spit out the word like it had burned her tongue, ripping the rag in two with a sharp tug. She stared down at the ruined cloth in mute surprise before continuing.

“I love them because they accepted me, took me in when I had nothing in the world.” Once again she met Sam’s eyes, but this time he didn’t lean away. “I love them, but they are cruel. They embrace the monster, use it and refine it to feed their own curiosities.”

“I admit,” she resumed when Sam stayed silent, “none of us are innocent, myself included. When Cassian brought you in, what he planned on doing to you, I said nothing to stop them. I was as intrigued as the rest.”

She stood, tucking the ripped rag into her pocket and picking up the empty glass.

“You should prove that you are what your father said you were. For Cassian, it is better to be a toy than to be dinner.”

“Why are you doing this?” Sam asked before she turned to leave, fear creeping back into his mind at the thought of being left alone in the dark once more.

“Like I said Sam, I’m intrigued.”

With that, she spun on her heel, leaving Sam to watch as her body was silhouetted by the light from the hallway, the edges spreading and brightening until the light swallowed her completely, and the door was shut again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this a cliffhanger? No clue. Comment if you hate me now ( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so I'm gonna try and update this once a week hopefully consistently on Thursdays! I already have chapter 2 ready so we'll see how this goes!


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